


When There's Nothing Left to Burn

by Taste_is_Sweet



Series: A Thousand Words [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Community: picfor1000, Crossover, Gen, Hydra are dicks, Illya no, Protective Illya, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, the russian crossover no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 14:29:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5788855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/pseuds/Taste_is_Sweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>How many times has Illya wished he was someone else's son? That he'd lived some other life? "That makes no sense." But his hands are shaking, rage lashing his spine.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"I know. But…they did something. To our heads. I'm not…" Vanya swallows. "We're not who we are, but we don't remember. They made us not remember."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	When There's Nothing Left to Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foxfireflamequeen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxfireflamequeen/gifts).



> The title comes from the song [Your Ex-Lover is Dead](https://youtu.be/r5Or6-HOveg) by Stars.
> 
> This fic was inspired by [this photo](https://www.flickr.com/photos/jakig/14910229489) prompt given to my by the [A Picture is Worth 1000 Words](http://picfor1000.livejournal.com/) Live Journal Community. I originally had another idea for a story entirely, but I kept coming back to the picture's sense of emptiness, lack and desolation. Then I watched the _Man From U.N.C.L.E._ movie, and wrote this. (I didn't include the quote or song information in my word count.)

_When there's nothing left to burn_  
_You have to set yourself on fire._  
\---Stars, [Your Ex-Lover is Dead](https://youtu.be/r5Or6-HOveg)

Death is a flash in a distant window.

"Get down!" Illya yells, but Gaby has already thrown herself into Napoleon, knocking them both to the balcony floor. Illya covers their bodies with his, flipping the table into a shield for whatever good it might do.

They're dead. All three of them. The Winter Soldier doesn't miss.

Except, seconds later they're still alive, then a minute after that. No bullets. No violent end in this beautiful, European city.

Illya shoots back to his feet, scanning the windows where he saw light bounce from a metal arm. "Stay down!" he hisses at Gaby when she moves.

She does. Napoleon, of course, does not. He groans up to his knees like an old man. "Mind telling me what the hell that was?"

"Yes." There are no other flashes, no sign of a weapon. "You need to go." He keeps his eyes on the building. Nothing. "Now. Backup rendezvous. I will find you."

"What is it?" Gaby takes his arm.

He shrugs her off, more violently than intended. His hands are shaking. _Not now. Not now._ "Leave! Go!"

"Come on." Napoleon steers her into the room with him. "When?"

"By midnight. Or go without me."

"Don't be stupid," Gaby snaps. "We're not leaving without you."

"Yes you will. Protect her," he orders Napoleon, then throws himself off the balcony.

Napoleon yelps, but Gaby knows him better and isn't concerned. Illya catches the balcony railing below, then the one below that, dropping by stages to the ground. He glimpses people in the windows, staring, but doesn't care. Who'd believe them?

He runs to the building, certain Vanya's not there anymore, then scans the surroundings. There: the older, shabby apartment building. Clearly abandoned. Yes.

Illya runs up the creaking, splintering staircase, no point to be quiet.

" _Bugai._ " The word's not loud, but the sound carries. Vanya's voice is exactly the same.

"That isn't my name anymore, comrade." His eyes flicker over the room, cataloging the cracked window and broken furniture; the ratty blanket, hexamine stove and empty IRP tins. "You've been waiting."

"Not waiting. Searching. I had to find you."

Illya gives Vanya his full attention, though he doesn't go any closer. He's nearly as powerful as Vanya, but 'nearly' isn't enough. He's never fought the Winter Soldier and won, only survived. "I thought you were sent to kill us."

Vanya shakes his head. He looks the same, of course—they both do—but his hair is too long, grimy. It flops in his eyes. "No. Not sent. I…I ran. Escaped." He's thin, looks sickly: grey and shaky around the edges. Maybe Illya could take him down this time.

He doesn't want to try, but he may have to. This is all wrong. "What are you talking about?"

Vanya drags his fingers through his hair, leaves them on the back of his head. He's staring at nothing. "I'm remembering things. You. Me. We're not who we are."

"What?" How many times has he wished he was someone else's son? That he'd lived some other life? "That makes no sense." But his hands are shaking, rage lashing his spine. _No._

"I know. But…they did something. To our heads. I'm not…" Vanya swallows. "We're not who we are, but we don't remember. They made us not remember."

"Impossible."

"Everything's wrong," Vanya continues like he didn't hear. "But I don't…I don't know what's _right._ Where were you born?" he asks suddenly.

"Leningrad." The answer's easy, immediate, save for the whisper that follows: soft and brutal as a chisel on stone.

 _Rybnik._ It's meaningless, he's never been in Poland. "You're from Odessa."

Vanya shakes his head again. "No. No. I wasn't. I…." He clenches his eyes shut, clutching his head like he's in pain. "It's wrong. It's wrong. It's wrong." He's speaking in English.

"You're sick." Illya steps closer. "It's the serum, making you believe these things. You need help." He reaches for him. "It's all right, Vanya. Just—"

"NO!" Vanya shoves him so hard the wall cracks when Illya hits it.

He rockets to his feet, rage flaring, but he doesn't let it take him. _Not now!_ Vanya's sick; it's not his fault.

"I'm not Vanya!" He sounds like Napoleon, like an American. Vanya's hands are in fists, but his eyes are liquid and afraid. "That's not my name. They took my name, Illya. I think they took yours too. But I don't know. I can't remember."

"I'm Illya Kuryakin." (But there's a flash of a woman shrieking _Łucjan! Łucjan!_ only she's bleeding where they hit her and she's not fast enough as the truck carries him away.)

 _How old_ were _you, when your father was sent to the Gulag? Ten? Eleven?_

_Was that when the psychotic episodes started?_

He shakes his head like he's throwing off a blow, ignores the scream he traps behind his teeth and how his whole body is trembling. His mother was a whore. She didn't give a damn about him once his father's money was gone.

"We need to leave now, before they get here," Vanya says. He looks out the cracked window, as if KGB operatives are coming up the street. "If they capture us they'll take everything away again, like they always do. We'll never know who we are." He holds out his hand. "Please. Come with me."

"Sputnik," Illya says.

He catches Vanya as he falls, lays him gently on the blankets. He takes a transmitter out of his pocket and places it next to him. "I'm sorry, but you need help. When you're better you'll understand." It still feels like a betrayal.

There's more furniture in the other rooms, some intact. Illya smashes everything, until he's exhausted and his hands are bleeding and the rage is finally gone. It's always better, once he gives in to it.

Everything is clear again: Illya Kuryakin is helping to shape the century. His work is a gift to mankind.

Once Vanya's cured, he knows his brother will remember that too.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [Tumblr!](http://taste-is-sweet.tumblr.com/) Or come check me out [here](https://aundreasinger.com). ♥


End file.
